Yours Truly
by thatguywiththetypewriter
Summary: In the absence of those we love, the heart grows fonder. As the need to speak to them grows, what else can be discovered in those desperate moments? --A repost of an earlier story. I'll add more chapters if you all like it.


The ground was cold and wet, the soothing scent of a midnight rain still lingered in the air, teasing Naota's nostrils. He'd remember back to the days not-so-long ago, when he'd slip out of his house and under Kamon's nose--who, oddly enough, didn't really care anyway--to creep down to the overpass, where he'd find a nice spot on the ground to lay back and watch the skies, hoping, wishing that she'd return to him.

_Her_… he'd pause to think. The girl who had forsaken him so long ago-- _You're still just a kid, Takkun… _Her voice bounced around in his head, and nostalgia set in. A kid willing to grow up too soon. He could understand, and he realized that on that day, she had done something that, before, he never would have thought she would do, something so out-of-character, she'd think about somebody else.

_What a time to be selfless, huh?_ He'd think to himself, an ironic smile creeping its way across his face.

A blush fell onto his cheeks, replacing the smile. Finally, logic had caught him--tag, you're _it_. How could you not feel so foolish to sit and wait for somebody so reckless, to be so naïve to even think that such a person could return? Any other time, in this realization, you'd turn away and spare yourself some dignity.

Tonight, however, felt different. As he stood out in the middle of the night, he'd look up to the sky with great ambition. He'd feel foolish if he had missed the chance at getting what he wanted, what he waited for, for what seemed like, forever. Tonight was his turn to be reckless. After all, he is _it._

With bat in hand, he'd drop a small sack onto the ground and reach into it to pull out a few balls. Tossing a baseball up into the air he'd raise his bat over his shoulder and step back. He was out of practice, so it might take a few swings to get it right.

He'd focus on the ball, watching it drop out of the night sky like a star had tripped and fallen, and imagine an arch in his heart, stretching out into the glorious star field above him. Quickly scanning across the punctured, black, back-lit canvas he'd find his target. A star, _his _star. Concentrating on this star he'd take aim and swing the bat. A satisfying crack confirmed contact, and he watched in awe as the baseball flew into the sky and disappeared amongst the stars.

He'd feel the sting in the palm of his hands after a few seconds had passed. A shot that she could be proud of, one that you would swear had escaped the Earth's atmosphere. _No,_ he thought,_ not with a bat._ Leaning over, he'd dig into a guitar case he had sat there earlier and pull out an Azureglo Rickenbacker bass. Turning his attention once again to the heavens, he'd smile._ "_You'll see this one."

He had done better than he thought he would've on the first try, so maybe now he was ready for the real thing. Tossing another baseball up into the air, he'd pull his 'bat' over his shoulder and ready himself to swing again. As the bass connected with the ball it'd let out a low groan, the hum of the thick strings rang aloud in his head, sending a chill down his back. It had felt just like he imaged it.

_I could get addicted to this. _He'd watch the ball soar into the air and out of vision. _That_ one must've escaped. He'd look on, satisfied with himself.

Soon an hour had passed, and Naota was lying back on the ground. The grass was still wet, but he drew some odd pleasure from it. Feeling the wet blades press against the back of his neck felt comforting, the cool wet tips feeling like the prick of a needle, sinking into your skin to fill you full of morphine to relieve you of your pain. This, somehow, was his drug. When he couldn't take the pain anymore, he'd come here.

Naota stood up, clinging to the bass that had been in his grip the whole time--an odd substitute for a teddy bear. Safely placing it in the case, he'd zip up the ends and pull it over his shoulder, looking back to grab his bat. Glancing once more to the skies, he'd turn and begin to walk away, leaving only a lone baseball behind in his place.


End file.
